


I Disagree

by ctrl_plus_c



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Eating Disorders, Fights, Hallucinations, Hearing Voices, Mental Instability, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Virtual Reality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27767176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ctrl_plus_c/pseuds/ctrl_plus_c
Summary: Shinguji's life in the hospital after the killing game.
Relationships: Amami Rantaro & Shinguji Korekiyo, Chabashira Tenko & Shinguji Korekiyo, Shinguji Korekiyo/Shinguji Korekiyo's Sister, Shinguji Korekiyo/Yonaga Angie
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	I Disagree

**Author's Note:**

> Based off the song I Disagree by Poppy
> 
> I disagree, everything you believe is a tragedy

Shinguji awoke screaming. He shot up from the pod he was contained in, long nails scratching at the medical staff trying to keep him down. There was a pounding against his head from all the memories flooding into his brain. Memories telling the story of a boy manipulated by his sister, memories telling the story of an outcast who never had anyone to love him. The Memory of him auditioning, the memory of his acceptance, the memory of his death.

Golden eyes went wide and he stopped struggling just long enough for the doctors to push him back down into the cushioned pod. He was ordered to stay still as they checked his vitals and gave him the time to get used to being alive. His entire body ached, the tingling sensation of being boiled alive carrying over from the virtual world. He felt significantly lighter as well, which wasn't a good thing considering he wasn't a very heavy person before.

It wasn't long before they carried him on a stretcher to his new room. The walls, floor, ceiling, practically everything about the room was colored white. He didn't find the energy to move for a long time his body sinking into the hard bed, soaking up as much warmth from the thin sheets as it could. The pillow surrounds his head, plush yet overwhelmingly soft, his head sinking down into the pillow. It was a long time before anyone tried to see him, either.

Hours passed until he moved. He lifted his arms, pressed his palms against the cement bed, and pushed himself up. A ghost made its way through white halls until it arrived in the cafeteria, large and white and filled with other participants who'd woken up. The ghost, with long dark hair that fell over its eyes, pale skin stretched tight over bones, and nails that were long enough to become claws was immediately noticed.

Chabashira wasted no time lunging for it, taking it and throwing it around, slamming its back into the floor in anger. She would've continued with her assault if it hadn't attracted the attention of the rest of the room, Amami (a man who had no reason to hate the ghost, he died so early) coming over and pulling her off of it. The ghost's back ached as it stood up again, paying no mind to the attack and continuing on with its trip.

it could feel the stares of everyone in the room. It was natural; the ghost was dead. It was a dead person walking, a dead person moving to a coffee machine and making coffee like it was nothing big. It returned to its cement bed as silently as it had left it, acting as if it had never been there. Really, it never was. It was dead in a virtual game, boiled alive by robotic bears in a pot big enough to hold his entire body.

Shinguji returned to his room, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands. The room was still white, and he didn't know why he expected it to be any different. There should be a body there, a body with blood leaking from wounds that had to be investigated, a body belonging to one of their friends who now meant nothing more than another murder needing to be figured out, another blackened to be sent to their death.

There was nothing. Of course, there was nothing, of course, it was still blank white with only a splash of color coming from the fake flowers sitting on a white table. His cement bed was still colored white, appearing soft from the blanket draped over the mattress. He'd like the room more with a corpse strewn across the floor; at least there would be color.

The coffee tastes like shit, he realizes upon drinking it. This would be his first and only time making the trek to get the bitter liquid. He sets the mug on the table beside the flowers and decides that it looks better as a decoration than as a drink. If laying on his bed gave any relief to his back he'd move to it, but the floor was warmer under his feet than the bedsheets were when wrapped around them, so he simply stood in the middle of his room, empty-handed and cold.

Minutes became hours. His legs started to wobble but he didn't move, fixated on a point on the wall, his feet glued to the ground where he stood. He kept thinking about his dead sister, his nonexistent sister, the voice in his head that sounded like his sister. Apparently, his lack of movement alerted some doctors, who thought he might've died while standing up. They set him in his bed and instructed him not to do that again.

The cement bed wasn't any more comfortable than the floor, but at least he wouldn't be interrupted by doctors who were worried about his well-being. Most likely, they're worried about the cash he could bring in from the merchandise signings and parties and other things famous people do. He suspected that there weren't many people who liked him anyway, but any amount of money he could bring in would be exploited as much as it could.

His back hurts more now that he's on the cement bed, his back being forced to straighten against the tough stone. At least the pain distracted him from the voices in his head; those voices consisting of his own thoughts and the contrasting ones of the secondary personality jammed into his brain. Then there was the quiet whisper of the tulpa belonging to the other Shinguji, but she was pushed too far down by his fake personality.

His other self and his real self weren't two separate voices; it was one voice mangled together and constantly arguing with itself. The combination of those two personalities made him what he was now; and his jumbled thoughts were only an extra addition, just like his endless knowledge of mythology and folklore that he knew the writers had simply copy-pasted into his brain. 

When it came time to sleep, he had quite a deal trying to until his other self began reciting old stories about princes and princesses, about monsters and knights, about gods and worshippers. His thoughts were calm for once, everyone inside his head focused on the one voice telling stories of old. It didn't help him sleep, but it helped him relax. He could imagine the events projected onto his white ceiling, the story of a woman chief leading her village to victory over another, another story about great beasts and even greater warriors.

This was the one thing he could appreciate about his other-self. His endless knowledge of anthropology was simply fascinating, and maybe if he wasn't such a creep he'd be more popular. Even his voice was soothing when he tried not to sound like he had a frog in his throat, even if it was Shinguji's own. It was strange, finding comfort in the sound of your own voice, and his classmates would judge him, surely they would until he remembered they didn't judge him for anything.

They hated him for everything. The way he looked, the way he sounded, the way he acted, the way he walked, interacted, danced, killed. It all brought upon a feeling of disgust in his classmates' bellies, made them want to vomit and puke and kill, kill, kill. He wasn't a violent person, he never was, but his other self killed for a dead loved one and that's what his classmates' hated most. They didn't hate him, but they hated his other self, his incestuous serial killer self. They didn't even know the real him, and most of them probably didn't care. 

The cement bed swallowed him and his thoughts whole before he could protest. The white room folded up into itself, wrapping him in a box and cementing him in place. His breathing quickened as the air ran out in his coffin, and he tried to scream for help, barely any sound penetrating the cement. He was trapped, left to die and decay in his white cement box.

Then, she spoke, for the first time in a long while. 

"This is your fault, my dear."


End file.
